Identity

gracemcloughlin15
Apr 27, 2024
3 min read

The dancer? Or more?

This post is designed as a creative outlet, describing my experience with the pressure to stick to my labelled aesthetic- the dancer.

I hope this can be used as a tool to ease your guilt and remind you that you are not alone.

A positive experience…

I have no regrets. My commitment to dance provided the building blocks to a secure childhood: opportunity, purpose and memories.

I started dancing at the age of two, training in ballet, tap and modern jazz. My mother was a dance teacher. My genes were coded to jump, leap split and turn, so naturally, my early experience of being “the dancer” was positive…

Pink.

Pretty in pink. Pale pink slippers, bows, tutus., The pink tights, the pink skirt, the pink ribbons. Obsessive? No, it was the attire that made me, me! I associate pink with the bubbly and focused version of Grace.

She pranced into her studio with pride. Through achievements and overcoming challenges, she learnt about her capability and inner strength. Not only gaining skill but gaining self-trust. She twirled in the living room. Confidence. A new style of dance is daunting, but her growing mind knew how to persevere and be open-minded. Spin, jump, flip, twist. Energy. I adore how she spent each moment of the day with fresh vitality. Filled with life, she was determined to boost the mood of any event. She showcased her talent, without realising that her flexibility wasn’t the most valuable skill she had learnt.

Dance enriched my soul: a decade of nourishment. The mental, spiritual and physical benefits of dance transcend the external allure.

A negative experience…

Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, competitive dancers foster a dualled identity. Although you drill your technique and work tiresomely for strength and endurance, the imagery you produce through movement must be artistically flawless. Perfectionism silently creeps up on you whilst you juggle fitness and aestheticism, and exhaustion disguises itself as hard work.

Comfort to claustrophobia. This is the ugly part; the part when you begin to wear like the sole of your pointe shoe.

My personal boundaries became vulnerable as the fine line between my personality and my hobby morphed into one. I became what I could achieve- no less; no more. My brain automatically started using skill as a measure of self-worth and if my arabesque leg was an inch lower than yesterday, I was a failure.

Entering my teen years, I was inspired by personal aspirations to develop as an artist and an athlete but being blind to the effects of hormonal changes during puberty, I was ashamed of how these changed. I was inferior to an undeveloped version of me.

We are told to dance like our life depends on it, but this simplicity isn’t realistic. I was a dancer, a friend, a student, a daughter and as my body’s energy supply was needed for internal function elsewhere, I couldn’t keep up. Plagued with guilt, I couldn’t admit that my motivation was running low. Why did I want to experiment with new hobbies, new friends, new lifestyles? That is not me. I am a dancer.

I was soon wobbling on a tightrope of insecurity and my identity was unstable.

I was desperate to know what I could achieve without dance. I was unable to

communicate this to the people around me because I relied on dance as my only good quality. I now was torturing my other qualities, scrutinising myself.

I reached the breaking point, became unwell and I stopped dancing. The relief was uncomfortable.